Chapter 28
Lewis dropped his window and put his hands out. “Yo, Nickels. It’s Lewis.”
Nickels came closer, pale and squinting in the headlights. His voice was thin and high. “Let’s see the money. Or else turn that rig around and get the fuck out.”
Lewis gave him a wide smile. “My brutha. Put up that gun. I got the dough if you got the hardware. ’Less you dudes don’t want to get paid today?” Lewis was laying on the street thicker than butter on a biscuit. Maybe this was what he meant by the Denzel Washington.
“How much you got to spend?” The sleet melted on Nickels’s coat and ran down onto his pants, which from the darkening color were likely not waterproof.
“Enough,” Lewis said. “Can we at least talk someplace out of the damn rain? I’m getting wet, leaning out the window like this. Hell, you must be soaked to the bone.”
“You got the money on you?”
“Told you I did, man. Who you think you talkin’ to?” Lewis opened his door and stepped out, looking around. “I always did like this place you got up here. Room to breathe, right? None of those uppity city folk to bother you. Man, I got to get me a joint like this.”
If this was the Denzel, Nickels wasn’t buying it. The AK stayed steady. “Stop right the fuck there. Show me your hands. Who’s that driving?”
Lewis stopped and held his hands out from his body.
Nickels was twenty feet away. “Nobody you need to know, man. A good dude, reliable. Keeps his mouth shut.” Lewis took a step toward him.
“You know I paid you boys a lot of coin over the years. I ain’t looking for no bargain.
” He took another step. “I need three long guns and three pistols, extra mags for all of ’em.
Everything new, no history, no serial numbers. ”
Nickels’s voice hardened. “Tell him to get out of the truck. Keep showing me those hands, both of you.”
“What’s the damn problem, Nickels?” Lewis took another step. “I told you, he’s cool. You gonna show me some inventory or what?”
“Get your pal out of the truck or I’ll shoot him where he sits.”
Peter didn’t like how this was playing out. Even from that distance and through the windshield, he could see something in the man’s face. He opened the door, laid the .357 on the door’s armrest, and showed his hands. “Don’t shoot. We just want to do a little business.”
Nickels turned the gun on Peter for a moment, then pivoted back to Lewis with his finger on the trigger. They were fifteen feet apart. “Now take your coat off, nice and slow. Then show me the money.”
“I ain’t taking it off, man. It’s raining.” Lewis sounded indignant. As he unzipped his jacket and held it open, he took another step closer. “I ain’t strapped. The cash is in my coat pocket.”
Nickels took three steps back, settling the rifle deeper into his shoulder and putting his eye to the iron sight. Maybe not such a dumb peckerwood. His voice sharpened. “Take out the money and put it on the hood of the truck. Any funny moves and I blow your fucking head off.”
“I thought we was doin’ business, Nickels. This feels more like a stickup.”
“It’s going to be a killing if you boys don’t do what I say. Now take off your got-damn coat and put the money on the hood.”
This had gone from bad to worse. It was all about the money. The AK had a thirty-round magazine. After Nickels dropped Lewis, he’d empty it through the door and into Peter. There was a lot of acreage for burying bodies out here.
Behind Nickels, the pole barn door opened and a second man stepped out. Raising another long gun.
Shit, shit, shit. Peter tasted copper in his mouth. Before he could think twice about it, he picked up the .357 and stepped bareheaded into the rain, keeping the big pistol out of sight behind the door. “Fuck it, Lewis. Let’s go. These guys don’t have shit.”
Nickels began to pivot toward him, gun up and ready. “Hands up or you’re dead.”
Lewis moved so fast he was a blur. He grabbed the rifle barrel with one hand and pulled it down and away.
Under pressure, Nickels pulled the trigger.
A jet of orange fire shot from the suppressor into the trees.
Then Lewis stepped in close and gave him a hard elbow in the head.
It sounded like thumping an overripe melon with a wooden mallet.
Nickels fell on his ass in the mud and Lewis had the weapon.
“Lewis, behind you.” Peter raised the .357 toward the second man and thumbed back the hammer. The metallic click cut like a razor through the sound of the rain. “Drop the gun,” he shouted. “Drop it or I’ll shoot.” He was maybe forty yards away, not the easiest shot with a four-inch barrel.
The man didn’t reply. He didn’t even hesitate. The gun kept rising.
Peter pressed the trigger. The .357 leapt in his hand. The man with the rifle staggered back, but he still held the weapon.
Peter thumbed back the hammer again and tried to squint the rain from his eyes. By then, Lewis had managed to reverse Nickels’s rifle and raise it. He beat Peter to the trigger with three rounds on full auto. The man fell forward and was still.
At Lewis’s feet, Nickels was on his knees clawing under his Army coat. Peter sprang forward and kicked him in the stomach. Nickels flew back.
Peter tore open the coat and pulled an automatic pistol from the holster on his belt, then got back to his feet, weapon ready, eyes scanning for another shooter. Lewis did the same.
They stood there in the deepening mud, breathing hard. The rain came down as though it would never stop.
There were three trucks at the house, but so far only two men.